


From This Angle

by Unovis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:45:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Points of view.<br/>Three angles on Sherlock. A remix of "Parallel, Perpendicular, Parabola" by calamitybreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From This Angle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Parallel, Perpendicular, Parabola](https://archiveofourown.org/works/547314) by [ganymead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ganymead/pseuds/ganymead). 



> The original story dealt with an AU in parallel universes, in the form of three 221-b segments. These are three others’ views of Sherlock in the unhappily unfulfilled setup of Parallel.  
> More than one meaning of angles and points of view, as I'm fond of puns.  
> Many thanks to Jay Tryfanstone for support and appreciation.

*

Obtuse he said, one of those slant insults, didn’t mean it, the dear, pained boy; mean to hurt, that is, not this time. Not from my way of seeing it. Stop caroming about, he said, like a bank shot, like a something something I didn’t quite catch, hearing him sideways, clearing away his tea. Something naval sounding. The captain, may he burn black in hell, cursed me nautical in his cups. Cruel, he was, and there, dropped a fork. Bless Sherlock.

It’s no work has him so unsettled. Or the ghost. I like a military man, I’d said, passing conversation, and he flinched, and barked, snapped like a terrier. It’s his ghost, he brought it with him. With that skull, likely. I see him stare and start, and that look he gets around the eyes. Sad. 

I wouldn’t mention, not for worlds. I’ve heard the steps on the stairs, the floorboards. The warmth in my sitting room, the smile in the glass. Solid and kind; someone missed, then, and not a threat, and not my concern. Obtuse, I looked it up. And laughed. Not dull, not stupid, no. Wider than right. Open. Had a lie back in my chair, feet up on the ottoman, cup of tea. Listening to him upstairs, playing a lovely tune, apology. And him haunted, poor boy.

*

Acute observation was the key, a sharper tool than intuition. His brother should know. It was a failing of his, the great flaw in what could have been a peerless mind. The younger son, the artistic one, the putative philosopher. The one prey to “what if,” and “suppose,” and “possibly.” The one who leapt.

He sat forward, elbows on knees, fingers tented at his lips, his habit to focus thought. To drive a wedge into the problem’s heart. Sherlock. Sherlock the unbalanced, Sherlock in want, Sherlock the incomplete. Sherlock, who leapt to conclusions, across gaps, into and out of drugs. Sherlock the vulnerable. Sherlock, aimless, radiating...need? Vibrating like a plucked string. If only music were more than metaphor. The symptoms were clear, accelerating, for another fall, but not the underlying cause. Messy stuff, organics. As bad, as inexact, as sentiment: as “heart.”

Something his brother was feeling the lack of, and damned if he knew what it was. Sex? If only. Occupation? Purpose? Luxury? All offered, all rejected, over time, all but his criminal puzzles and games. An audience, perhaps, an adorant. A dog?

He sighed. No avoiding it. They’d have to talk again. Unroll the tools honed on the harder emotions. Competitiveness. Sarcasm. Contempt. Arrogance. Rudeness. Conversation as dissection. Time to prick and pierce and see what makes him bleed.

*

Right. You think you know a man.

Sherlock Holmes was a great man, in the making. A good man, you’d even thought, after he’d got straight and gone clean. You tell yourself things, you hope and believe, that there is a right and wrong, a proper set of rules beneath it all. You tell yourself things, in faith, against the evidence. You have to believe that at the base of all you do stands the law.

You couldn’t say what Holmes believes.

Funny thing is, the way he works, the way he thinks, is logical. His reason, when he can be arsed to explain, is level headed and precise. You imagine formulas, lines of code, marching through his head, spitting out his mouth. You even wrote his reasoning out once, the first time, sitting at your desk after hours, working it through. You wanted, at the first, angry, almost desperate, to understand. Now you watch and rein him in when he goes too far too fast. No proof, no play.

Or rather, you did. There was no rhyme or reason to it. You were bending over a body, listening to him rant, and mid-sentence, he stopped. Walked away. Left his flat, you found, left London, unbelievable, no parting words, no forwarding address, gone, completely off the grid. He owed you better.


End file.
